But for One Final Sin
by ArwenLalaith
Summary: "Miss Adler... I mean...Mistress," Emily stammered, looking up and seeing Irene standing in the doorway to her office. "What are you doing here?" Irene leaned lazily against the doorframe, hand on her jutting hip, fingers casually drumming against the arch of her hipbone. "I just had a very interesting conversation with someone named Clyde Easter..." Sequel to The Lethal Temptress.


**AN: This is set post-season seven, during the time Emily works for Interpol in London and I guess, before The Scandal in Belgravia. It sort of ignores the whole blackmail and treason thing with Irene and focuses just on the fact that she is a dominatrix. This is a universe I could see expanding, so let me know if you think that would be cool or I might assume I am the only one who ships this... Obviously, heavy BDSM themes follow (I admit, I know next to nothing about the subject so I did a crap load of research because I am better than 50 Shades, but in no way am I an expert, so take it with a grain of salt). Enjoy!**

The door to her office slammed shut and Emily looked up from her work, startled. She half expected it to be Clyde again, on yet another power trip, demanding something be done by an irrational and impossible deadline, as he was wont to do on average of three times a week. Irritation washed over her and she tensed herself for the disagreement that usually followed her door bursting open.

"Miss Adler... I mean...Mistress," she stammered, upon looking up and seeing Irene standing in the doorway to her office, smiling entirely too smugly at having caught her off guard. "What are you doing here?"

Irene leaned lazily against the doorframe, hand on her jutting hip, fingers casually drumming against the arch of her hipbone. "I just had a _very_ interesting conversation with someone named Clyde Easter," she said, almost apropos of nothing.

"What?" Emily yelped, voice an octave too high. She swallowed thickly on the anxious knot that had tangled up in her throat.

"Yes," Irene said as if she either didn't notice or didn't care that Emily's reaction had been entirely out of proportion with what she'd said. "He seemed very interested in a date. I think he'd be just my type, don't you?" She examined her nails with disinterest.

"No!" Emily exclaimed, slamming her palms against her desk, giving her exactly the reaction she'd wanted. "I mean..."

But it was too late, she'd taken the bait and her Mistress snapped the trap shut around her in careful execution of her plan.

Irene flicked the lock and drew the blinds, smiling like a cat who got the cream. "Something the matter with that?" She shrugged out of the trench coat she was wearing, revealing nothing underneath.

Emily's eyes got wide and her mouth went dry. "Of course not. You're free to do as you wish," she backtracked, trying not to stare openly. As her Mistress constantly reminded her, it was bad manners to stare.

Irene strode across the office, black Louboutin heels clicking against the floor with deliberate measured steps. She rounded the desk, trailing her fingers along Emily's shoulders. "You wouldn't tell your Mistress what she could do, would you?" she asked dangerously

"Of course not, Mistress," Emily husked, eyes fluttering shut as Irene's hand tickled up the back of her neck and tangled in the hair at her nape.

"So, if I were so inclined as to offer my services to Clyde Easter, you'd be pleased I found another little bitch to enjoy, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, Mistress," she said softly, reluctantly, voice trembling with a combination of arousal and fear.

"Wouldn't you?" Irene said again, louder, yanking sharply on her hair until her head tilted back.

"Yes, Mistress," she repeated, clearer this time.

Irene studied her face silently for a moment, staring into her wide eyes. "You fucked him, didn't you?" she accused, narrowing her eyes in displeasure.

Emily blinked rapidly, but said nothing, well aware her Mistress would be angry with her.

"Answer me!" Irene shouted, rattling Emily's head the way a dog shakes its prey.

"Yes," Emily admitted, eyes skirting away, unable to hold her gaze. "It was a long time ago, but..." she rushed to explain.

Irene tossed her head away from her. "You whore. Maybe I'll fuck him and make you watch, just because I can. Tie you up, make you watch, and forbid you from coming...you'd like that, wouldn't you, slut?"

Emily whimpered, but said nothing.

Irene barked a laugh. "You've been wicked, Ms. Prentiss..." she breathed, lips beside her ear. She hooked a perfectly manicured finger in the neck of Emily's turtleneck, pulling it down and exposing the dark leather collar around her neck. "Perhaps I gave you your collar too soon," she mused, "I'm no longer sure you've earned it, if you've been lying to me all this time.

"Perhaps I should search for a new slave who will serve me better." She strolled back around the desk, seating herself on the far edge, facing away from Emily.

"Please, Mistress," Emily nearly sobbed. "I'm sorry. Give me another chance, I'll do better!"

Irene's smirk was particularly wicked. "Kneel."

Emily nearly leapt out of her chair so that she could kneel at her Mistress' feet; she made sure to use proper form – hands clasped behind her back, leaning forward over her thighs so that her nose touched the floor.

She didn't know what her Mistress had planned for her and the idea of serving her right there in the office when anyone could walk by and knock on her door made anticipation shiver down her spine like ice water.

Irene reached into the top drawer of Emily's desk and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Emily immediately recognized the sound of the links clinking together and trembled slightly. They'd been working together on her reaction to handcuffs and she'd reached the point where a short time in them didn't set off her PTSD, but she didn't think they'd ever fail to make her anxious. In her current position, her wrists were offered up, ready to be handcuffed.

"You're being punished because when I asked you to list everyone you've ever slept with, you failed to mention fucking your boss," Irene told her, clicking the cuffs shut on her wrists.

Emily lifted herself up slightly to say, "Well, technically it was classified and..."

"I didn't say you could speak!" She stepped on the middle of Emily's back, the heel of her shoes digging into the skin, forcing her back to the ground.

Emily whimpered, wanting to apologize, but unable to with her face pressed against the carpeting.

"Against the wall," Irene commanded.

As best she could in her current position, she shuffled to press herself as close to the wall as possible.

Her Mistress slid a quarter along the wall in front of her face. "Hold it there," she demanded. Emily looked up, confused. "With your nose. Keep it there. If it falls, you won't like what happens..."

Emily blinked at her blankly for a moment, not meeting her eyes, but not keeping her eyes respectfully averted, either.

"I said nose to the wall. Now," Irene said, slow and cold, making her jump slightly before obeying.

Her ears followed the sound of her Mistress' heels across the floor. Irene lifted herself up onto the desk and spread her legs, plunging three fingers inside herself.

Recognizing the sound, Emily gave a little squeak and pressed her nose tighter against the coin, crossing her eyes to try to focus on it.

"Now tell me about it... What was it like to fuck Clyde Easter?" Irene asked, conversationally, as if she weren't thrusting her fingers inside her cunt.

Emily whimpered in response, unable to form any words.

"Go on, describe it," Irene goaded. "Unless you've fucked so many men you can't remember..."

"He, umm...he was good – very good," Emily stammered, words slow to form as she listened to her Mistress panting and moaning as she finger fucked herself. She felt her thighs start to get sticky, the sounds going straight to her cunt.

"The best you've had?"

"No, that was...someone else," she said, Ian Doyle's face, contorted in ecstasy as he pounded into her, flashed across her mind. The only other person she'd omitted from the list she'd given her Mistress, for a variety of reasons.

"Hmmm," Irene hummed, no doubt filing that piece of information away for future use. "Continue."

"He fucked me so hard," she said, struggling to remember details, as she was squirming, trying to put some pressure on her throbbing clit. "He was rough, he left bruises..."

Her Mistress' moaning got louder and more primal and Emily keened and squirmed. Irene laughed breathily at her struggle. "You want to fuck yourself, don't you? Make yourself cum thinking about his cock inside you... But you can't fuck yourself with your hands behind your back, can you?" she taunted.

"I'm sorry," Emily whined, "I'm sorry!"

Irene clicked her tongue in scolding. "Finish the story. Tell me about his cock." She fucked herself harder, fingers squelching and slipping in her juices.

Emily clenched her pussy at the sounds, unable to move without dropping the quarter. "Not the biggest I've had, but thick and...God...he knew how to use it. He made me cum so hard, again and again...ahh..." She whimpered.

Irene's cries reached a fever pitch as she neared her peak.

Emily cried out and tossed her head back, the quarter clinking to the floor. She shifted so that she could grind against her heel, rocking back and forth hard.

"Stop!" Irene demanded. "Crawl to me."

Emily nearly sobbed, but she obeyed, crossing the floor to kneel at her feet.

Her Mistress held out one foot. Emily obeyed the silent command and kissed her foot. Irene grabbed hold of her hair and pulled her face into her pussy, rubbing it through the juices built up there, marking her with the scent of her cunt.

"Now everyone will know that you're my bitch," she whispered, mere inches from her face. "And speaking of..." She crossed over to pick up the quarter, flipped it up in the air and caught it.

By the way she was grinning, Emily knew in that moment that she'd been given a punishment she couldn't win. She also knew that she was about to be punished again.

"Let's make this fair," Irene said, flipping the coin again. "Heads, I give you the belt. Tails, I invite Clyde in here to play with my toy."

Emily gasped sharply.

"I'm a generous woman, dear, and if I want to share my toys, you'd be glad to be a part of pleasing me, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, Mistress," she whispered.

Irene flipped the coin and Emily watched it arc through the air with bated breath, until she caught it with a smacking sound as it contacted her palm.

"Heads," Irene called, "Must be your lucky day. Pity... I was looking forwards to him using you like the whore you are."

Emily sighed with relief – she wanted to please her Mistress, but while Clyde had been a good fuck, she wasn't interested in repeating the experience.

Irene ordered her to strip and she eagerly obeyed, pulling her belt from its loops with a shush of leather on fabric and handing it to her Mistress. She took it and folded it in half, slapping it against her palm with a heavy slapping sound.

Emily slipped out of her soaked panties, the musky aroma of her arousal filling the air. Without being told, she bent over the edge of her desk, supporting herself on her forearms.

Irene stood back for a few moments, admiring the sigh of her toy, bare and waiting for her to abuse it. The sight thrilled her down to her core.

Holding both ends of the belt, she let it go slack, then tightened it, letting the two sides slap together with a sharp crack, making Emily jump in anticipation.

Without warning, she lashed out and struck Emily's waiting ass with the belt, causing her to cry out without a thought as to where they were and who might overhear.

"We can't have that," Irene warned. She grabbed Emily's panties off the floor and stuffed them in her mouth, effectively gagging her. Emily let out a muffled whimper.

Irene laid into her with the belt again, but this time Emily's cries were muffled by the fabric in her mouth.

The belt thudded against her skin, stinging sharply down into the muscle. Emily found it wasn't altogether unpleasant. The more strikes she got, the more the sensation turned pleasurable and her pained cries turned slowly to pleased little mewls.

"Are you getting wet, slut?" her Mistress taunted. Emily nodded, whining, making her laugh coldly. "This is supposed to be a punishment."

She let the loose end of the belt slip through her fingers, took a test swing, then whipped Emily's reddened ass. This time, the yelp it produced was clearly from pain.

The lash produced a big reddened welt where it made contact.

Again and again, the lashes struck Emily's ass until she was crying out around her makeshift gag, tears sliding down her cheeks against her will. She squirmed and struggled, clenching her cunt.

"Don't you dare come!" Irene demanded, with a powerful whip, hitting a welt and making her scream.

"Please," Emily begged, the word unclear and muted, not sure what exactly she was pleading for, "Please..."

"Please what?" Irene taunted.

"I don't..." she mumbled, "I can't... Please."

With one last whip, as hard as she could, Irene laughed, then let the belt fall to the floor, the metal buckle clattering dully against the carpeting. "Get dressed."

"But..." Emily stammered, pulling the saliva damp panties out of her mouth and inhaling deeply, filling her lungs. "I need..." she attempted to articulate, squirming and pressing her thighs tightly together.

"I said, get dressed," Irene repeated mercilessly. "This was a punishment. In fact, you don't have permission to touch yourself at all."

Emily nearly sobbed, but obeyed the order anyway. She moved to put on her panties, but her Mistress clicked her tongue to stop her.

"Not those." She held out her hand and Emily handed them over, keeping her eyes averted.

It had the desired effect as Emily pulled her pants on, feeling the fabric of her dress slacks sticking to her thighs and the wetness of her needy cunt, making her cheeks burn with the humiliation her Mistress was trying to inflict.

When she finished getting dressed, Irene pulled on her coat, stuffing Emily's panties in her pocket with a smirk. She brushed Emily's dishevelled hair away from her face and kissed her cheek. In spite of the punishment, Irene was still tender with her in the aftermath. With delicate fingers, she adjusted the neck of Emily's sweater to better hide the collar. "Perhaps I'll have to invest in something a little more subtle, a collar you won't have to hide. I own you and I want everyone to know it. _Especially_ Clyde Easter."

Emily keened softly, the thought of being collared in plain sight thrilling her. "I'm yours, Mistress," she answered, looking to the floor respectfully.

"Good girl," she praised. "Walk me out?"

Emily followed her through the bullpen, feeling a little paranoid that everyone was staring at her with judgement, as if they somehow knew what had just transpired between them.

Once outside, Emily lit a cigarette and took a long drag, holding in the smoke for a long moment. She leaned against the building, Irene next to her, then let out a slow breath of smoke.

"I don't think we should see each other anymore," Emily said eventually.

It had become clear to her that her feelings for Irene had shifted recently, away from a professional relationship (albeit one that involved a lot of sex). She hesitated to call it a crush because that seemed a little second grade to describe feelings she held for her dominatrix, but her feelings were becoming decidedly romantic in nature.

For a split second, Irene's face fell, before she collected herself and regained her composure. "Why?"

Emily shrugged as she took another drag. She might as well go for broke and admit her feelings. She had nothing to lose and Irene deserved the truth. "I have feelings for you," she said, voice strangely devoid of emotion, as if she'd distanced herself from her own feelings. "This doesn't work if I can't simply view it as a business transaction when business is all there is between us."

"Emily..." Irene started, but Emily cut her off.

"It's okay, I'm sure this happens all the time for you. When sex and endorphins are involved like this, I'm sure lots of people get confused about their feelings. It's not your fault."

"Let's have dinner," Irene husked, resting a hand on her forearm.

"What?" Emily blurted, after a moment of dumbfounded silence.

"Dinner," she repeated, eyes dark and heavy-lidded.

"But..." Emily said, floundering for words, "I didn't think..."

Without warning, Irene leaned in and pressed her lips firmly to Emily's, kissing her deeply. Emily was stunned into oblivion for entirely too long before she regained any semblance of control over her body and was able to return the kiss. And when she did, it was with all the pent up desire she'd been forcing herself to keep hidden for fear of losing her.

Emily had kissed her fair share of women in her lifetime and probably more than her share of men; she liked sex and was afraid of commitment and everything it encompassed, so she was prone to kissing strangers in bars and having a lot of one night stands. In all the time since her very first kiss at the tender age of eleven, she'd only felt this thing – this swelling, choking feeling in her chest one other time (and she tried very hard not to think about why Ian Doyle had made her feel it when no one else could). She wasn't quite sure what it was she was feeling, she just knew that it meant something important.

Irene broke the kiss and leaned in close to Emily's ear and whispered, "Have dinner with me – I'm not hungry..." Emily pulled away with fluttering eyelashes and hitching breaths as she struggled to get air into her lungs. She sank her teeth into her bottom lip to force herself back to reality as the ground beneath her feet seemed to heave and roil.

When her world finally stopped spinning and she was able to open her eyes again, Irene was gone. She swivelled her head from side to side, trying to locate her, but she'd disappeared seemingly without a trace as if she'd never been there.

She touched two fingers to her swollen lips that still tingled with the memory of soft lips pressed there and brought them away stained with Irene's signature blood red lipstick, left behind like her calling card, the only proof she'd been there at all.


End file.
